


proper care for unusual cellmates

by brightclam



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Amputation, Gen, Micheal has some issues and Sucre tries to help, Self-Harm, only time T-Bag shows up is when he gets his hand chopped off :), set in season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 17:18:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10644471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightclam/pseuds/brightclam
Summary: Michael Scofield is one of Sucre's strangest cellmates ever, and not just because he's digging an escape tunnel behind their toilet. He's too kind to the people around him and too harsh on himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I started watching prison break and finished season one and for some reason this was stuck in my head. Something about how calmly Michael took all the injuries in season one set off warning bells in my head.

\-------

The first time he really noticed anything strange was when Michael came back to their cell with two less toes. He'd already been to the infirmary, so they’re wrapped in gauze and hidden from view, but Sucre winces in sympathy anyways.

 

What's weird isn't that he’s lost some toes; some form of mutilation is expected when you mess with John Abruzzi.

 

No, the injury itself isn't what's strange, Michael's reaction to the injury is.

 

He limps a little when he walks, of course he does, his balance has to be wrecked by getting part of his foot chopped off. But other than that, he shows no sign of being in pain.

 

He doesn't try to stay off his feet, even when they're allowed to rest he doesn't sit or lay down on his bed. He stays on his feet, standing in the doorway staring out, or just nervously fluttering around the room.

 

Sucre considers telling him to get off his feet and let the toes heal, but he’s not his mother, and Michael probably wouldn't appreciate it anyways. He’s definitely more pissy now, even though he doesn't show any signs of pain.

 

In the end, Sucre just has to shrug and decide to stay out of his cellmate’s business.

 

\-------

 

“Do you have a razor or not?”

 

Sucre is slightly surprised; Michael has always been so reluctant to shank people before, but now he’s asking for Sucre’s razor. But if Michael is finally ready to defend himself, Sucre’s happy to help him out. So he pulls the razor out and hands it to him.

 

Michael grabs a pack of matches and lights one, holding the razor’s blade in the flame. Sucre knows that he’s sterilizing it, but he doesn't know why he would bother. Even he isn't nice enough to worry about his target’s wound getting infected.

 

When he puts the razor to his own arm, Sucre suddenly understands. He starts slicing into the skin, blood slipping down his arm. Sucre winces and makes an aborted motion forwards to stop him. He doesn't try it: if he interrupts Michael, he might decide to take the razor to Sucre instead of himself.

 

Michael just keeps cutting, a line slightly longer than the razor. Blood pools around the razor, obscuring the tattoos on his skin. Then he finally puts the razor down and Sucre breathes out a sigh of relief.

 

Until he starts digging around in the wound with his fingers. Sucre twists away, disgust curdling his stomach. Michael finally stops searching and pulls his bloodied fingers out, a chunk of his own flesh held in between them.

 

Sucre struggles to push down his gag reflex. Michael messes with whatever he pulled out of his arm, peeling back the flesh to reveal a small, black pill.

 

Michael sets the pill down and calmly washes and bandages the wound. Sucre stares at him, unsettled. He’s been inhumanly stoic about his wounds so far, and has no reaction to cutting into himself. It just isn't natural.

 

But he decides it’s just Michael being his determined, brother saving self. He doesn't realize it's a sign of something wrong until later.

 

\-------

 

They’re waiting to start the escape, the room full of tension. Sucre is fidgeting as quietly as he can, nerves shot after weeks of working on the tunnel. 

 

Michael sits next to him, legs crossed and leaning against the wall behind them. He starts slamming his head into the wall, slowly at first, then faster, until it's a steady rhythm. Sucre winces at the soft crunch of flesh, but doesn't tell him to stop. Sucre is guilty of fidgeting as much as Michael is, so it'd be hypocritical to yell at him.

 

When it's finally time to go, Michael lunges up from his seat. Sucre takes it slower, stopping to run his fingers over the small smudge of blood Michael has left on the concrete wall.

 

He stares at the red on his finger tips, which matches the small abrasion on the back of Michael's head. Even in such a stressful situation, he shouldn't be fidgeting badly enough to hurt himself.

 

He frowns at Michael's back, but there's no time to talk, so he just pushes his concern into the back of his head.

 

\------

 

Michael crawls out of the hole in the wall, much less gracefully than usual. As he pulls his right shoulder through, Sucre can see why. There’s a bloody hole in the shirt, through which he can see a red, blistering wound. At the edges of the wound, the dark fabric of the guards uniform has interwoven itself with the burnt skin.

 

Sucre helps him into the cell. He pulls his legs through but doesn't try to stand up, just stays kneeling on the floor. Sucre shifts nervously, not sure how to help. Michael starts unbuttoning the uniform shirt and orders Sucre in a pained, tense whisper:

 

“Get it off me!”

 

Sucre helps pull the sleeves off by tugging at the fabric over his shoulders, but pauses once his arms are free.

 

“It's stuck in your skin, I can't pull it off!”

 

Michael snarls at him, fingers clawing at the floor as he braces for the pain.

 

“If the guards catch me in this, I'm a dead man. Get it off me!”

 

Sucre grits his teeth and gets a grip on the fabric. He pulls, the mangled flesh and torn fabric ripping apart with a wet noise. Michael screams, the first noise of pain Sucre has heard him make, and collapses to the floor, unconscious.

 

Sucre curses and starts stuffing the shirt under Michael's pillow, then begins tearing the uniform pants off of him. He can hear the guards coming, alerted by the scream, running footsteps echoing in the sleeping prison. 

 

Sucre has just hidden the last scrap of dark fabric under Michael's covers when he's blinded by a flashlight. The guards are staring through the bars at him, crouched over Michael's bleeding, unconscious body.

 

_ This doesn't look good for me. _

 

One of the guards curses and his keys rattle as he opens the cell door. Sucre freezes, doing his best to look harmless as the guards rush in. He doesn't resist as they drag him out of the cell.

 

\-------

 

When Michael gets back from the infirmary, he doesn't waste any time before he rips the bandage off to look at the burn on his back. Sucre hisses in sympathetic pain as he peels the bloodily bandage off the angry red burn. But Michael doesn't even flinch.

 

He just stares into the mirror, face turning from worried to horrified.

 

“The tattoo...the part that shows me how to navigate the tunnels underneath psych ward is gone.”

 

\--------

 

It's been hours since they discover the extent of the damage to the tattoo, and Michael hasn't looked up from his pad of paper since then. Occasionally his scribbling will stop and he'll crumple up the paper and throw it away in anger.

 

He's been getting louder in his crumpling every time he stops; he's getting frustrated. But this time he doesn't just throw the paper away. This time he slams his fist down, against the bed frame.

 

The metal screech startles Sucre, but he doesn't complain. He's learned that Michael's thinking rituals are entirely necessary to his plan making.

 

But then it happens again. And again. And again. And again. 

 

Sucre leans over to ask him to be quieter about it, but freezes when he sees his cellmate. He’s hunched over his paper, the hand that's been hitting the bed frame redded and bleeding from the impact. As Sucre watches, Michael twitches and scratches at the slowly bleeding wound, widening it.

 

Sucre’s stomach twists. Before, he couldn't be sure. There was always a reason for the self mutilation, it was part of the plan. But now he's sure. Michael is hurting himself on purpose. 

 

Sucre jumps down from the bed, landing quietly. Michael doesn't notice him, just keeps scribbling on the paper and scratching at his hand. Sucre tiptoes closer and whispers:

 

“Hey, Michael. Stop doing that, man.”

 

Michael looks at Sucre out of the corner of his eye, but doesn't show that he’s processed what Sucre said. Sucre sighs; looks like it's time for extreme measures.

 

He doesn't usually touch Michael unless the other man initiates it. His cellmate has that twitchy air that just tells you that irritating them might set them off. But now he reaches out without asking first.

 

He grabs Michael's wrist, gently, and pulls his hand away so that he can't scratch anymore. Michael flinches, looks at Sucre with startled eyes.

 

“Hey, hey. Don't do that, okay?”

 

Michael blinks, slowly, his eyes swimming back into focus.

 

“Sucre?”

 

Sucre smiles with relief. Michael's back in the real world, at least partially.

 

“Yeah, it's me.”

 

Michael looks down at Sucre’s hand on his wrist, still dazed.

 

“Why are you touching me?”

 

“You're hurting yourself. Don't do that.”

 

Michela looks down at his other hand. He's not surprised to see the blood and torn flesh.

 

“Hmm. So I am.”

 

Sucre bristles at his nonchalant acceptance of the damage. Michael may be strange and scarily intense, but he’s still his friend. And he’s not going to let this continue. He kneels in front of Michael and shifts his hold so that he’s holding his hand rather than his wrist. He tries to ignore the blood under Michael's fingernails.

 

“I don't want to see you doing this anymore, okay? I'm your friend and I know this isn't good for you.”

 

Michael smiles at him, like he’s happy that Sucre cares, but also has no intention to listening to him. 

 

“I'm telling you, anytime I see you doing this I'll stop you.”

 

Michael smiles again, wider and more sincere.

 

“I've always done this you know, it's a habit by now.”

 

Sucre huffs and stands up, wetting a towel to clean his wound.

 

“Well, I'm going to help you break that habit.”

 

\--------

 

They've made it out of the prison and Sucre is vibrating with tension. He saw his cousin fall and get caught by the guards, but wasn't able to do anything about it. And John and T-Bag are at each other’s throats again; the only thing that's keeping T-Bag alive is the handcuffs he's wrapped around Michael's wrist.

 

Sucre thought the worst was over once John has pulled the gun on T-Bag and Michael had gotten handcuffed. Once they make it into the barn, Lincoln pins T-Bag to the hood of a parked car while Sucre tries to cut the chain with a pair of shears. They can get the handcuffs off, abandon T-Bag, get on the plane, it'll all work out.

 

Micheal waves him off, looking defeated.

 

“It's not going to work.”

 

Sucre pulls the shears away; Michael is the engineer, he knows what can and can't be broken. As he puts the shears down, they all twitch towards the clang of metal behind them. He only manages to get a glimpse of John wielding an axe before blood splatters and T-Bag screams.

 

T-Bag is curled on the floor, sobbing, clutching the stump where his hand used to be. Michael jumps away from him, free from the chain. Sucre stutters, unable to believe his eyes:

 

“You cut his hand off!”

 

John snarls, brandishing the bloody axe.

 

“He's lucky I didn't plant this in his skull.”

 

Sucre takes off; John looks like he might be tempted take that axe to someone else. Michael joins him in his flight a moment later. Sucre tries not to think about the bloody barn and the mob boss behind them, instead focusing on what he can fix.

 

Michael is running his hand over the red ring of irritated skin the cuffs had left on his wrist. His eyes are glazed again, and his fingers are starting to dig into the skin.

 

“You okay?”

  
When Sucre speaks, Michael jerks back to reality and drops his hands to his side. He nods, face pale, and keeps running. Sucre make sure to stay at his side as they run towards the air strip, just in case. He intends to keep his promise as long as Michael allows him to stay at his side.

**Author's Note:**

> All the injuries are canon except for the last two sections.


End file.
